Wasteland
by jae-vous
Summary: She wonders idly if she will ever be able to escape the desert.


By twelve on Thursday, Tony's made four film references alone in just that morning; Ziva's broken twice as many pencils, and McGee's been on the receiving end of six pranks and counting.

Four days without a case has them on the brink of insanity, and on each other's last nerves. The only thing they manage to agree on, however, is lunch from the diner across town.

But with Dorneget no where to be found, and no fresh probie to abuse, it comes down to one of them going to pick up lunch.

McGee loses spectacularly, bested by Tony in a short lived game of rock, paper, scissors, and so he's sent out on lunch duty; because there's no arguing with DiNozzo once he's started quoting Magnum, and a brief yet dangerous look from Ziva made it clear that to send her out to retrieve their meal would spell pain for him and suggested his food would end up anywhere but his growling stomach.

So Tony and Ziva are left alone, and therefore the first agents Vance sees when he appears before them; a covert demand on the tip of his tongue.

McGee returns to the empty bullpen with two more sandwiches than he can eat, wondering if Ziva finally silenced their partner and his endless movie trivia indefinitely, and is currently busy hiding the body, or if they were off planning another trick at his expense.

He reminds himself to check his keyboard for superglue periodically the rest of the day.

* * *

"Pack light."

He looks up from the bench as she pulls off the light, cream colored blouse she wore into work that morning; letting it fall to the shower room floor besides the slacks she's already discarded.

He looks down at his duffle bag, then back up towards his almost empty locker.

"Won't be a problem." He grumbles, snagging a black t-shirt from his bag, glancing back up and taking a moment to admire the view of his toned, bare partner in nothing but black lace and a knife strapped to her ankle.

She feels his gaze, and reaches into her bag to pull out another knife, tossing it over to him. He catches it easily, and she gives him a nod.

"Just in case."

* * *

"Get in. Get out. Leave no trace."

He chews at the toothpick at the corner of his mouth, and Tony wonders vaguely just how they're going to do that. But when he turns to his partner next to him, she gives their director an affirmative nod, pocketing a burner he'd handed them as they stepped out of the car and onto the tarmac.

"We will be in contact."

They share a curt nod, and Tony shudders as the engine of the C1-30 roars to life behind them.

He meets his director's piercing gaze then, and is reminded of another.

"Gibbs?"

The curve of a smile curls at his mouth, and he pulls his toothpick from between his lips.

"Leave him to me." He disappears behind the tinted window, and they watch the back of his car until it fades from view.

* * *

"You think Dubai is nice this time of year?"

* * *

Their feet hit the ground, dust and heat enveloping them, and he's struggling to swallow as he squints at Ziva in the blistering sun.

She wonders idly if she will ever be able to escape the desert.

* * *

"I've seen enough sand to last a lifetime."

He says it sarcastically, sweating in the heat of the shack they've been allotted to for the night. He doesn't think twice about the comment until he hears her chuckle darkly, and see something flash in her eyes when he looks around at her.

It's gone before he can even register it.

"Ziva, I-"

"I am going to check the perimeter."

She jerks to her feet, fleeing from him, the room, and his intense, mournful gaze.

* * *

He often wonders about what happened to her that summer.

He wonders if he will ever have the courage to ask her.

* * *

"Is it on?"

Ziva heaves a sigh behind his back, and he struggles to his feet, frowning down at the feed, the microphone, and the blank screen of the transmitter.

"Do I look like McTech to you?"

He's examining three different wires, his forehead creasing and frowning in the way that sends warm, unwelcomed tingles down her spine.

She reaches around him to deliver a swift blow to the bulky machinery to alleviate the thoughts.

Tony startles, his back brushing against her, but the screen comes to life then and Vance's face swims into focus before them.

"Good to see you've arrived safely."

His eyes dart between them and their close proximity, but his gaze doesn't linger long before he clears his throat and gets to business.

He gives them several coordinates, and then he's gone.

They're alone once more.

* * *

The small cot is the only space available to sit down, and so they're laying side by side when night approaches; when darkness makes it impossible for him to continue reading his book.

"Ziva?" He murmurs hesitantly, looking over at her still back. "Do you want me to take the floor?"

She pretends to be asleep.

He pretends to drift off beside her.

* * *

He wakes to a strangled cry, and a cool blade at his throat.

"Ziva, wake up. _Wake up_. It's me."

Her eyes are half-wild, a sheen of sweat on her forehead that shines in the moonlight. He swallows noisily, not daring to reach out and touch her. Yet.

He continues to soothe her until he sees her return, her eyes widening with awareness, and at last she removes her hand from his throat.

She flings the knife away from her, as if the touch burns her. It flies behind her, embedding itself in the wall.

"I am going to shower."

He watches her jerk free from the tangle of sheets, following her back as she disappears behind the door of the makeshift bathroom.

He counts ten minutes until the water finally turns on.

* * *

He wonders if it's being in the desert that's brought the memories back, or if the nightmares had simply never ceased.

* * *

She returns to bed just as he's drifting off to sleep.

She settles carefully beside him. He knows she's listening closely, and tries to relax his breathing, feigning sleep.

He doesn't know if he convinces her, but shortly after he feels her warm hand wrap around his chest; her arm curling tightly around him.

* * *

They sleep until dawn, waking as light spills through the window.

* * *

It takes them a half hour to get ready, and two hours to locate the bunker by jeep.

They travel by foot ten miles out.

* * *

He doesn't think he has to worry about her following orders.

That's before they see the hostages.

* * *

"This isn't part of the assignment."

He hesistates with a mag in his hand, regarding her warily as she straps a backup to her waist. Her braid swings around her head when she leans down to tuck her knife into her boot.

She ignores him.

"There's too many of them." He tries again, and glances helplessly in the direction of where their jeep waits, miles off from where they are.

She straightens then, and he hears the click of her safety disengaging as her hand curls around the familiar weight of the gun in her hand.

"I know what I am doing." She murmurs.

He squints against the sun; squaring her shoulders, her eyes blaze back at him.

He knows she does.

* * *

They breach the compound undetected, and they gather the intel as directed by Vance.

He warned them not to engage.

Tony knows it takes all of his partner's self-control from releasing the ninja each time they pass a guard.

* * *

"If we go back, we could -"

"_No_."

Her tone suggests she's thinking about it.

His tone suggests she better forget about it.

"While it is dark, we won't be detected. You saw those men. We could get past them with little difficultly."

He smacks the dashboard with his free hand, the other keeping a tight grip on the wheel.

"_Dammit_, Ziva. _No_."

She falls silent, turning her head away from him. Her gaze burns a hole through the passenger side window.

* * *

She emerges from the bathroom with dripping hair and rivlettes of water disappearing beneath a piece of cotton that hardly constitutes as a towel.

"Your turn."

He diverts his eyes from traveling up her legs as she raises a questioning eyebrow to him, and what he thinks could be an invitation in her eyes. Swallowing roughly, he grabs his clothes and makes for the bathroom just as he hears her towel drop to the floor behind him.

* * *

She's gone when he finally exits the bathroom.

She's taken her gun, her back-up, and the keys.

He finds the knife she tossed him in the locker room waiting for him on the made bed.

* * *

He regrets putting his fist through the door when he realizes their accommodations don't provide a freezer and ice to dull the pain.

* * *

Minutes stretch into hours, night fading into morning and then into afternoon.

His hand is purple and raw, and he spends the day curling it carefully around his gun, testing the feel of it and the ache it causes to raise and aim.

He's sleep deprived and a little manic when night approaches once more. Scenario after scenario has filtered through his mind; his head conjuring up every single terrifying thing that could have happened to her.

* * *

He drifts off to visions he conjures of all he would do to those unwise enough to lay a hand on her.

* * *

The force that which he uses to pin her against the wall is stronger than she was expecting.

She gasps, her hand jerking to grab at her side, but she stops herself in time.

"It's me." She breathes into the dark, and immediately the force that threw her against the wall is just as roughly pulling her against him.

He pulls back, and his hands touch her everywhere, searching, checking…

"Are you okay?" His touch travels over her back, through her hair, down her sides.

_"Are you whole?"_

She expected anger and worry, prepared for it; but the desperation in his voice makes her chest ache with guilt.

Her eyes are adjusting to the dark now, and she finds his searching hers for confirmation.

"Did they-"

"I left no trace." She whispers quickly. "I eliminated any trail."

He wonders how much blood was spilled tonight. His eyes dart to where she draws her hand to her side.

"Are. You. Hurt?"

He's met with stoney silence and an expressionless face.

She diverts her gaze.

He roars an expletive.

* * *

"If you don't stop shaking, you'll only make it worse."

He crouches between her legs, shifting closer and kicking her discarded shirt on the floor out from beneath him. He wills his hands to still as they hover over the deep wound.

"Tony-" She presses, her voice coming out tight as her control begins to slip.

"I got it," He says more to himself. He reaches for the alcohol, a gauze pad. Every little move she makes irritates the wound, causing fresh blood to pour from the area. She doesn't make a sound as he cleans and dabs at the wound, and it's his breathing that hitches when he picks up the sutures and needle.

"Are you sure you know how to do this?"

She tries to keep her voice light, but her hand curls around his forearm tightly.

He does.

And if he didn't, he would figure it out if he had to.

He'd do whatever it takes for her.

Taking a deep breath, he looks up at her, and flashes a terrified smile.

"This reminds me of a movie…"

* * *

He gives her about half of their ration of ibuprofen, and she's knocked out in bed by the time he's cleaned up the murder scene.

He phones Vance and tells him they were successful, and briefs him on Ziva's injury.

He conveniently leaves out her detour.

* * *

He crawls into bed beside her, and she drifts awake as he shuffles under the covers.

"You talk to Vance?" She murmurs across the pillow, tangling their fingers together under the sheets.

He squeezes back just as tightly.

"Pick up is at zero-seven hundred. We need to meet the transport forty miles east of here."

She sighs, and her eyes drift over him, around the room. They narrow at something behind him. Her thumb traces over his swollen knuckles, and suddenly she presses down, roughly, causing him to hiss and jerk.

She gives him a hard look.

"What happened to the door?"

He challenges her back.

"What happened to your side?"

Her eyes soften, and he pulls her closer carefully, drawing his hand up her thigh to her waist.

* * *

When he thinks she's asleep, he releases the tears that have been burning his eyes since she walked back in the room alive.

* * *

He makes a production about arguing for the keys, claiming she's a menace behind the wheel.

He knows what he's doing; allowing her to save face, because she's in no condition to drive.

She lets him.

* * *

"Some weekend, huh?"

The engine roars in their ears, and she leans into him slightly on the seat as her side throbs.

"Scoot over." She huffs.

Smiling, he wraps an arm around her, pulling her into him and pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

* * *

Vance is waiting for them the moment they step out onto the tarmac. He has to half support Ziva down the stairs, but she stands before their Director straighter than him as he regards their sun-kissed faces and windswept hair.

"I trust all went smoothly?"

Ziva's eyes flit toward Tony; he opens his mouth to speak.

"We'll have our reports to you by tomorrow."

Vance nods once, motioning to the car idling a couple yards away.

"Bring them directly to me once they're finished." He says unnecessarily, and they nod in kind, trailing behind him as they approach the awaiting vehicle with Navy tags.

* * *

"What are you writing?"

He hears her fingers still briefly over her keyboard.

"I have seen enough sand to last a lifetime."

He jerks up from his half finished report, catching the ghost of a smile on her face, and he smiles softly back.

* * *

"Where were you two on Friday?"

They both look up as McGee enters the bullpen, a tight frown pulling at his face as he looks between the two of them. "You both owe me for the lunch you didn't eat."

The two of them share a look, and Tony leans back, smirking at McGee. "Believe me, McGee. You owe us." McGee's frown deepens, but whatever he's about to say is interrupted by Gibbs sudden appearance as he storms through the bullpen.

"Grab your gear."

A shuffle of feet answer his greeting, and as they move to head out of the bullpen, Gibbs pauses by Ziva's desk, nodding down at her.

"You - take it easy."

She nods in understanding, and Tony gives her a long look from behind Gibbs back before he rushes them out of the bullpen. McGee follows, confusion coloring his voice.

"What did you two say you were up to this weekend?"

Tony opens his mouth to answer, but Gibbs answers before him as he punches the elevator button.

"They didn't, McGee." He quiets under Gibbs' tone.

Gibbs turns his steely gaze toward McGee, who looks toward Tony.

He shifts his bag over his shoulder, and feels sand still embedded in the strap.


End file.
